On completion of my time on the Largo Bay, along with a few others, I was sent to Chatham Barracks to await my fate. This was the 23rd of February 1953.
The barracks was a large, red brick built place, with corner stones, lintels, doorways and windows emphasised with blocks of limestone.
As I recall we marched into this place entering via huge wrought iron gates (which seemed to be a feature in many naval establishments), past the guardhouse on our left, to be faced by a long straight road ahead of us.
We were marched along this road, flanked on our left by two or three-story red brick buildings, in front of which was a long row of Sycamore trees. To our left, on the other side of the road was a limestone balustrade, beyond which and 30 feet below was the parade ground with the drill shed on the far side of it.
Boy, did we have a shock as we rather slovenly marched down the street. From the upper window of one of the buildings came the roar of a voice from the past, “Get your shoulder’s back! Swing those arms! Get in step!” The voice was that of my old Gunnery Instructor. We didn't dare look up, but the effect was immediate. We marched onwards like Guardsmen! Smart as paint we continued until dismissed outside the building that was to be our home until the powers-that-be decided our fate, and detailed us to join a ‘proper ship’.
We were reminded all the time that we were still boys; the lowest form of animal life in the Navy; with the possible exception of Midshipmen (called 'Snotties' which we already knew). This reminder took form in the fact that at first light we were awakened with a kind request to get up, get dressed in our shorts and sports shirts, and go for an hour-long run around the nearby dockyard. An exercise which we really looked forward to. A lay-in on Sunday before Church parade was allowed for about 10 seconds. The parade taking place after a pleasant stroll at the double through the aforesaid dockyard.
Other things reminded us of our lowly status. Things like laying out our kit, not speaking until spoken to, getting the idea that if it moved you called it ‘Sir’, if it didn’t move you painted, scrubbed or polished it, if it wore rings, then you saluted it!
But one of the most tedious of our occupations during our stay was the leaf sweeping detail, since the long row of trees were continually dropping leaves. We would be marched to the entrance end of the road and gradually sweep the leaves up towards the other, stopping at times to put them in a wheeled hopper. This was our daily task under one or another Leading Seaman.
One day we had a different sort of Leading Seaman. He had a couple of long service stripes on his arm (denoting eight or more years of service) and it was obvious to us after a very short time that this chap never came down with the last drop of rain. He had a clipboard with him on which he jotted down our names.
He informed us that in future we would be his working detail, and it wasn’t long before we learnt that this guy knew a thing or two. We started off just the same; marched to the gated end of the road and swept to about the third building, he then ordered us to pick up our brooms, fall in and marched us between the buildings.
We were halted outside what turned out to be an old disused toilet block. “Detail dismiss!" he ordered. “Right, inside lads.” We went in not knowing what to expect. We waited, and as he entered into the place after us, he said, “Right, relax lads, have a seat, smoke if you like.” We were a bit slow in reacting, but having said it he sat on an old loo seat and lit up a smoke!
We carried out this routine about four times up the road taking 10 or 15 minutes breaks at each stop, this carried on until about 10 o'clock when he asked us “Anyone fancy a brew?” He then marched us to some gardening hut and there we were given a cup of tea. A similar routine was carried out in the afternoon.
This became our daily routine for the rest of the time I was there. If any Petty Officer, C.P.O. or Officer even looked our way while we were in the process of going from one hiding place to another, he would call us to a halt, get us to salute the Officer with the command “To the Front, Left, or Right salute!”, with the drill order of “Up, two, three, down!” and sometimes for even more authenticity, he gave us a telling off and get us to do it again!
For N.C.O.'s the treatment was different. He would call us to a halt, consult the clipboard he was carrying with our names on it, check it and look around as if he could not find what he was looking for. He would ask the senior N.C.O. “Excuse me, could you tell me the way to the galley?" (a frequent tea stop for us, or to the rifle range, another tea stop). He'd get the directions, and off we would go.
Teaching us the lesson: if you are not working, always look busy!
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